


Spat

by ConvenientAlias



Category: The Servant (1963)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 03:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19220845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Barrett is in a bad mood.





	Spat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skazka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/gifts).



Maybe it started on Tuesday. They’d had guests over on Monday, but only briefly, so the house wasn’t a huge wreck on Tuesday morning. Tony was pretty sure it started on Tuesday because he remembered that Monday night, Barrett had been in an amiable mood, really. The most he’d acted out all evening was making Tony kiss him in front of the women, and sit in his lap, which wasn’t bad really, just a little embarrassing. And the women hadn’t stayed too late, and neither of them had lost their temper. So on Monday, overall, things were really very good.

But on Tuesday, Tony got up and found the house still in disarray—though not a complete wreck, not in any sort of order either—and Barrett nowhere about. Figuring the man had to be still abed, he went upstairs to peek into his room. He hadn’t quite decided what his attitude would be. There was the impulse to reprimand Barrett and demand he get to the cleaning immediately, but also… The day before had been busy, and there hadn’t been much of a chance to talk. Tony half wanted to tug Barrett out of bed and down to the kitchen for a late breakfast (he would even help to make it, if necessary) and from there, well, the house would get clean eventually, who really cared.

Tony did not, however, get the chance to either scold Barrett or have a peaceful breakfast, because Barrett was out. His shoes weren’t underneath the bed, and his bed was even made, neatly, which meant he’d probably been up for some time, and had done some neatening, only in his room rather than the rest of the house. Tony felt his lips tighten. He took a deep breath and let it out. No, he was not going to be angry at Barrett. Doubtless he’d gone out to buy something important, and would get to the rest of the work eventually. And the man had a right to keep his room as clean as anywhere else, even if it wasn’t what he was getting paid for…

Sulkily, he headed downstairs to wait for Barrett to get back.

When Barrett wasn’t back an hour later, he began to do a little neatening himself. Barrett was always complaining that his guests messed everything up, made it so hard—though he couldn’t remember inviting the women last night in the first place, he supposed they were his guests regardless—and maybe the reason he was out so long was because he was cross. Seeing things a bit cleaner would probably make him happy.

Of course, he was no servant. He did the basics: he brought the plates and glasses into the kitchen, throwing out a couple orange rinds left on one of them. He put some pillows that had fallen off the sofa back on it. A couple pillows had actually fallen in the trash somehow, and he considered whether they’d need a wash, but it all gave him a headache. That was Barrett’s business, not his. He put them on the sofa as well. They didn’t smell bad, at least. The trashcan had been basically empty, so it was probably fine. This done, he abruptly felt exhausted, and sprawled out on the sofa with a few of the pillows under his head.

He must have dozed for a while, but he woke up to the click of a door closing and the sound of Barrett’s brisk footsteps entering the house. He didn’t get up though. He wasn’t a damn dog to come running whenever his… servant came home. He lay on the couch and waited. And Barrett came into the room, gave him one long, implacable look, and left.

Yes, Tony was pretty sure that was when it started: Barrett’s current fit of pique.

* * *

 

He wasn’t being as obvious about the fact that he was angry as he sometimes was. The dishes were still being washed—well, at least, enough of them were being washed for the two of them to eat off of. He was still preparing meals, too, though they’d been somewhat basic over the past few days—no soufflés or other fancy desserts for Tony, just soups and salads and baked chicken. He was still running the errands. They were nowhere near out of beer. And he had barely said anything critical to Tony in the past couple days either. Maybe a couple snide remarks when Tony provoked him.

“Barrett, there’s a spill in the corner of the living room.”

“I’ll get to it,” testily, “when I get to it, sir. I’m only human, aren’t I? How you expect me to manage this entire house all by myself, no maid and no cleaning service…”

And more grumbling. But it was all subdued, for Barrett. The problem was that he was being very reserved about everything else too. When he saw Tony speculatively tossing a ball up and down, he didn’t wander into the room and wait innocently in the corner until Tony suggested a game. He didn’t make comments on Tony’s sketches, not even critical ones. And on Thursday night, he left the room after serving Tony his dinner.

“Barrett!” Tony called after him in dismay.

Barrett reappeared in the doorway. “Do you need something, sir?”

“Well, I…” Difficult to remark on something that was nothing more than the breakage of an informal habit. “I rather thought you would eat with me.”

“I don’t see why you thought that, sir,” Barrett said. His hands were folded behind his back. It was worse than if he were crossing his arms, somehow. More inaccessible. “I’m just the servant. I can eat in the kitchen.”

“Well, for God’s sake, Barrett,” Tony huffed. “You eat with me every night. There’s enough in this bowl for two—get yourself a plate and join me. We don’t exactly sit on formality.”

“No, no, I’m the servant. You disregard all of my decisions all the time, ignore me, loll about the house, show me no respect whatsoever. Clearly I can’t be anything but a servant to you, but at least I have some dignity at that!”

At some point during this monologue, Barrett’s hands went from behind his back to gesturing angrily in front of him. This was, in Tony’s opinion, a slight improvement. The raised volume was, on the other hand, a little out of control.

“Come-come on, Barrett,” he said. “You know I don’t really think of you as my servant.”

Barrett went still. “So I’m not your servant now, is that it?”

“No—well, yes, but…” Tony trailed off. What exactly was he supposed to say?

Barrett shook his head. “Well until you make up your mind on that, sir, I think I’ll be going out.”

He stormed off. Tony didn’t entirely absorb what he’d said until he heard the door open and close. Then he got to his feet and hurried to catch up, but by the time he got to the door, Barrett was nowhere in sight.

“He’s got a bee in his bonnet,” he muttered. He closed the door again. “Barrett…”

What in the world was wrong with him? Tony couldn’t think of anything particularly rude he’d done on… Tuesday, he was pretty sure it had all started on Tuesday… but there was clearly something. Had Tony said something he’d forgotten? He hadn’t been messier than usual; he’d actually been somewhat cleaner. Whatever it was, this seemed like something of an overreaction.

Barrett didn’t come back that night, and Tony picked at the dinner, though the food was rather good. He wasn’t back the next morning, either. He wasn’t back all day, in fact, and Tony was left eating leftovers and fuming. At seven o’clock in the evening there was a knock at the door, and Tony got rather excited—and ready to tell Barrett that of course he didn’t need to knock, it was their house, after all—but it was a woman that Tony hadn’t realized had been invited over.

Actually she hadn’t been invited at all. She just thought there was a party going on, as “there nearly always is” on Fridays.

“No party tonight,” Tony said sourly. “I’m afraid Barrett’s taken the evening off.”

“Well, we don’t need Barrett to have fun, do we?” She smiled at him.

“I’m not feeling well,” Tony said. “I hope you find some fun elsewhere.”

He hustled her out, not as efficiently as Barrett would have, but competently enough. Barrett had in his favor an attitude of competence, but Tony had a different advantage: He was clearly mopey, and why would the woman want to stay for that?

Why would anyone want to stay for that?

Halfway into a bottle of wine, Tony contemplated that if Barrett had left him (and maybe he had) it wouldn’t be all that shocking. There was nothing that special about him aside from his money, and Barrett could easily find employment elsewhere. There was their relationship—Barrett said it felt like they were old friends sometimes, and the sex was pretty good by his standards—but love meant little. It was fleeting. His love for Vera hadn’t made her love him back, had it? And his love for Susan had slowly waned. So could Barrett’s love for him wane, easily. Easily.

But if he was going to quit, surely he would have turned in his notice. To be fair, Tony had no point of reference; last time Barrett had left he’d been fired. But it didn’t seem like him to just leave out of the blue.

No predicting Barrett, though.

Finished with the bottle, Tony headed upstairs. He had the idea it might be nice to wait for Barrett in his bedroom, so that if he came back in the night, he’d know and they could talk. Or if he didn’t come back, there was something comforting about his room. His bed. (When he’d left the first time, after the whole Vera incident, Tony had come up here more times than he’d admit, and told himself the only reason he didn’t clean the room out was because he wasn’t a servant.)

He fell asleep.

* * *

 

He woke to the door to the room slamming shut. He blinked his eyes open.

Barrett was there. Barrett was angry.

“Am I not allowed to have my own damn room in this bloody house?”

Tony sat up. Dazed. “Barrett… I’m sorry, I wanted to speak with you.”

“Well you can fire me in the morning, can’t you?”

“Barrett, I obviously don’t want to fire you. I don’t know what you’re so angry about, but you’re clearly blowing it out of proportion.”

“I’m not angry about anything except the general state of affairs. Now will you get out of my room? If you aren’t going to fire me, I haven’t got anything to speak to you about tonight.”

Tony knew he really should leave. But he’d been sitting here waiting for hours—never mind that he’d really been lying down and sleeping—and Barrett had been gone all day and he’d been angry all week, and damn it, “Watch your tone, Barrett.” He stood. When they were standing, they were the same height, even though Barrett so often seemed to loom with servile authority. “I am still the master of this house. Show some respect.”

“The master of the house, are you?” Barrett’s eyes glinted. “You lie around all day doing nothing, and you think you’re the master of the bloody house.”

“I want you to explain yourself,” Tony said coolly. He stepped closer, into Barrett’s space. When Barrett didn’t respond, he yelled, “Explain yourself!”

Barrett reached out and grabbed him by the chin, forcing his mouth closed. He was wearing gloves, Tony noticed, the leather gloves he wore when he went out. Smooth, firm texture. “Don’t yell, Tony, it’s late at night.”

Tony grabbed at his wrist, and Barrett grabbed at his hands, and they began to tussle. Barrett was the stronger of them, though, and the calmer, even with the glint of mania in his eyes. He forced Tony back a couple steps, and Tony stumbled as his legs hit the bed behind him. Barrett shoved him down.

“You want to talk?” Barrett asked. Tony tried to sit up; he pushed him back down again. “You want to talk, Tony?”

“Stop being an ass,” Tony panted.

Barrett wrestled him onto the bed further, so he was lying lengthwise, and sat down on his hips. It was a familiar position. Tony felt a spark of arousal at it. But now was not the time. He was pissed. He began to push himself upright. Barrett laughed and leaned down, getting in his way. He gave up and let himself collapse under Barrett.

Barrett ran a hand through his hair. Fond, in a way. The same kind of condescending he’d been on Monday evening. Maybe he’d been mad even then—maybe Tony was calculating it wrong—

The hand trailed down to rest on his neck. Still wearing a glove. Tony liked those gloves sometimes. Right now he hated them. He wanted to feel Barrett’s hands, the skin to skin contact. Not for even Barrett’s body to be distant from him, the way Barrett had been all fucking week.

“Don’t be mad at me,” he said.

Barrett laughed quietly. “I told you to get out of my room, Tony. You’ve been very bad.”

He kissed Tony then, and Tony couldn’t help but sigh into his lips. Skin on skin, tongue on tongue. No more distance. Of course, he wasn’t as gentle as he sometimes was. He kissed hard and deep, and his hand on Tony’s neck was clenching, probably going to leave a bruise. It made Tony gasp for breath, clutch at Barrett’s arms. But at least it was honest. It was how Barrett felt. Anger, but also desire, almost desperation. Tony didn’t really mind any of that. It was better than absence.

He let Barrett lead tonight, kissing and groping and rubbing with wild abandon. It was how things usually were between them, though maybe a bit emphatic. Tony didn’t instinctively know how to please Barrett, while Barrett usually could figure out how to please him. Maybe it was a servant’s instinct. Or maybe it was just Tony’s uselessness… but in the moment he didn’t worry about these things, didn’t even listen to the things Barrett said to him, sometimes worshipful and other times deriding. He just moved as Barrett wanted him to, and let his mind drift away.

Afterwards, they slept in the same bed. Barrett didn’t kick him out after all. Tony was relieved.

* * *

 

In the morning, Barrett tutted at the state of the house. “I leave you alone for one day, sir. Really you are a needy little thing, aren’t you? Can’t do without me.”

“Yes, I had a devil of a time,” Tony said fervently. “Please don’t do that to me again, Barrett. I swear I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Barrett shook his head. “Nothing much, sir. Just my temper—they say it runs in the family. You’ll have to forgive me, sir.”

Of course there was no question that Tony would do just that.

As he settled onto the couch with a newspaper (which Barrett had brought in), Barrett reached around him to pick up a couple pillows. “…I’d like to throw these away, sir.”

Oh. They were the ones he’d found in the trash on Monday. Tony shrugged. “Go ahead then, Barrett, you know I don’t know anything about decorating. Weren’t you the one who picked them out?”

“…no, sir. I’ve wanted to be rid of them for some time. If you don’t mind.”

Tony watched him drop them into the trash. He looked much too satisfied. But Tony was in a good mood too this morning; it was nice not to be fighting. He supposed that must be it.


End file.
